Temporary Madness, Fortunate Accident
by Tey'Imena
Summary: There's been a fight neither of them remembers, and Jim does some thinking in which he compares Then to Now - and finds he rather prefers the Now. Kirk/Spock


More Star Trek XI fanfic! The original slash ship this time, and once more in response to a prompt from the kink meme on LiveJournal.

**Disclaimer:** Gene Roddenberry owns 'em, for the most part, but also a lot of other people/groups like Paramount, J.J. Abrams, and the various writers/directors. I wish I was one of those people, but why I would be writing fanfiction, then?

**A/N:** I couldn't resist the prompt, I really couldn't. I should have, but I didn't. And it turned out pretty well, I think. Title taken from the Captain Corelli's Mandolin quote.

**Temporary Madness, Fortunate Accident  
**

"_Love is a temporary madness. It erupts like an earthquake and then subsides. And when it subsides you have to make a decision. You have to work out whether your roots have become so entwined together that it is inconceivable that you should ever part. Because this is what love is. Love is not breathlessness, it is not excitement, it is not the promulgation of promises of eternal passion. That is just being "in love" which any of us can convince ourselves we are. Love itself is what is left over when being in love has burned away, and this is both an art and a fortunate accident._" - Captain Corelli's Mandolin

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Neither of them was sure anymore what had started the argument; both of them knew, however, that argument became heated and blazed up into a full-fledged fight with snarled epithets of human passion and rigidly cold and restrained but no less passionate vocalizations of Vulcan reaction. And both of them knew that now, between them, lay a gulf, a wide, gaping expanse they weren't sure how to bridge.

And, not knowing how to cross that divide, even now after their years together, they let the space lie, and simply stared at each other across the space, silently, wishing they could reach out to the other.

They both hated it.

Spock, of course, never let on about it. Kirk was almost as good at getting on with things as per usual, but even so, Jim was a man who essentially wore his heart on his sleeve and little things could be as loud as neon signs with him. And it was these little things that he was contemplating one night, on a deserted observation deck.

Jim remembered the beginning of his relationship with Spock, the passion and the longing, the way they burned for each other so very brightly, the heat when they came together at night, during the day, whenever they could get their hands on each other. Jim remembered the way Spock had held him utterly captivated, the way he'd been unable to think all too clearly whenever the Vulcan was in the room or somewhere nearby.

He remembered.

The frantic hands at night, mouths open and searching, searching, seeking the heat and damp of the other; a wet furnace making its way along salty human skin while whispered, breathless, broken sounds spilled into the dark, close air between them; the slide of pleasure-pain as they pressed as close as they could get and then got closer still, minds and hearts and bodies and souls tangling together tighter and tighter and tighter until the world imploded in white heat and threw them apart all while tying them together ever stronger, until they came back to themselves, separate and independent of the other yet still wrapped in the other's warmth and life.

Jim remembered all that, and he remembered some of the other things, too. Fights, arguments, near misses and the occasional complete loss. But they all added up together, into something that Jim found he couldn't ever bring himself to regret experiencing, because it brought him to where he was today - and he didn't just mean that as Captain of the U.S.S Enterprise with the most fabulous crew known to mankind or any other species in the Federation (or any other group or planet).

And he compared it to now.

Now, there were less fights, fewer arguments (except for the ones he counted as foreplay, and both Jim and Spock delighted in those arguments, though Spock would never admit to such in any way, and Jim just liked to argue), and fewer misses or losses. Not to say that there was no friction between them (oh, friction; the sweet glide of Vulcan fingertips against flushes, sensitized, quivering human skin), but it had... mellowed. The hands were no longer frantic at night, it wasn't so hard to concentrate in Spock's presence anymore.

And yet, in the place of urgency and want and lust had come something softer, sweeter... the hands at night now took their time (though there was the occasional heat-filled dark of wilder things), smoothing over the expanses of skin, both pink and pale, fingers and fingertips tracing delicate veins and arteries, mapping the expanse of life beneath that skin and smoothing over a heart fluttering like a baby bird; their mouths still searched for each other, with as much heat as before, but now the warmth left them languid, left them soft and quiet and moving slowly as if to savor the taste imparted between them; that same slide of pleasure-pain but now more pleasure than pain, if ever any pain at all; and still that white heat consumed them as they pushed closer to the other, but even that incomparable star seemed softer around the edges, though no less in its brilliance because of it.

Jim had been in love with Spock then; wasn't he still in love with Spock now? Why did they feel so different to him? Should he let Spock go, to find someone who could give him the continuous passion that the Vulcan deserved, even if he never displayed it himself?

Jim had been coming to this same seat on this same deck nearly every night since the fight-he-no-longer-remembered, thinking the same thoughts over and over again, until he came to this conclusion: The thought of letting Spock go, of living his own life without Spock, was abhorrent to Jim. And that was what he was doing right now, and had been for the past few weeks – he'd been living without Spock.

Without a word, Jim got to his feet and headed for his lover's quarters.

Upon his arrival, Jim is not quite surprised to see Spock heading for Jim's own quarters. The two come to a halt somewhere between the two rooms, and stand there looking at each other. Kirk, taking in the blue uniform, the crisp lines of Spock's bangs and eyebrows, the gentle curves and sharp points of the Vulcan ears, and the fathomless brown eyes staring back so inscrutably into his own. Spock, taking in the gold of Kirk, from his hair to his skin to his uniform (gold just seemed to suit the human exquisitely well), the easy expressiveness of that beautiful face, and the clear blue eyes gazing up at him, emotions both familiar and not burning in their depths and making the blue of them glow.

"Spock."

"James."

The exchange is short, quiet – and yet filled with so much. Jim steps forward, hands outstretched and reaching upwards, to cup Spock's face. Spock lets him, almost leaning into the caress.

"I love you," Jim says simply. Spock's eyes soften, and his own hands come up to cup Jim's face in return.

"And I love thee," is said, inches away from Jim's lips, hot Vulcan breath ghosting over them like a brush of the desert.

Jim knows they've said these words to each other before, in so many different ways; in actions, in taking a blow for the other or in destroying an enemy out of crazed concern, in waiting in Sickbay for the other to wake, in simply standing next to each other; in words, in drawn out groans and breathy moans of whispered, intimate things, breathed along collar bones and cheekbones and jawbones; in snarls and yells and growls.

But Jim wonders if they've ever said it so simply, so clearly to each other before, without frills or additions or circumstances. Ten years together, and though it was never necessary, because they both _knew_ (the advantage of having a telepathic mate, Jim had long ago decided, was that eventually, you were never in doubt of their affections) how the other felt, but there was a huge difference between just knowing and having it confirmed.

They kiss, then, somewhere between the searching of frantic mouths and the greeting of familiar sensations, neither caring that they could be seen at any time should anyone walk by. After several long, slow moments, they part, though they lean their foreheads together.

"A temporary madness," Spock says after some time, and Jim grins as he tightens his hands around Spock's own, where they have slipped down during the aftermath of the kiss.

"No," he disagrees as he leads Spock into _their_ quarters, "a fortunate accident."

**END**

**Hope y'all enjoyed; leave a comment to say aye or nay, or if I need to fix something! :3**


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